"You sound like Mark." She groans.
"Of course I do. Did you see the sandwich she posted on Instagram? The bread was made out of bacon," Dad says.
Gross.
"Oh my God. I'm dating my father. I'm going to marry my father." Gia's nose scrunches.
I do nothing to fight my laugh.
Then it hits me. "Mark is finally proposing?"
She takes a long sip of her coffee. "We're discussing it."
"Really?" They've been dating for ten years now. Since high school. I like Mark. He's a good guy. But he's also… well, they've been dating for ten years and he still hasn't proposed.
"You're too young," Dad says. "You should be like Chloe. Move back in to your room upstairs. Just for a few years. A decade or so."
She laughs hell no. "He wants to ask your permission."
Dad shakes his head.
"He's old-fashioned. It's sweet," she says.
"Take it into your own hands. Propose to him," I say.
"Would you really propose to a guy?" she asks.
"Sure. Why not?" I ask.
"With a ring for him or you?" She looks at me like I'm a science experiment.
"I haven't been on a date in two years—"
"What about today?" she asks.
"What about it?" I ask.
"You went out with someone." She continues staring. "You did. You're blushing."
Dammit. I am blushing.
"You did! Oh my God. You like someone." She claps her hands together. "Who?"
"I do not." I bite my tongue. Gia always believed I had a crush on Dean. I never admitted it. Even to myself. I certainly didn't tell her about our night together.
"Someone at the tattoo shop," she says.
"No."
"Yes."
Dad jumps in. "Does this guy treat you well?"
"Uh…"
"Bad answer." He shakes his head.
"It doesn't matter. He's basically my boss." If I accept his offer, he'll actually be my boss.
"Your mother was my boss," Dad says.
"That's different. No one will think a woman is sexually harassing her subordinate."
Dad's smile gets wicked.
Gross.
He looks to me. "Would I like him?"
"Maybe…"
Gia laughs. "Chloe is finally hitting her rebellious phase." She looks at my black tank top. The tattoo on my shoulder. The short haircut. "Well. With guys." She smiles knowingly. "Is he all inked up?"
For a tattoo artist, Dean is pretty light on the ink. But for a normal guy? "Of course."
"Oooh. Hot." She makes a show of fanning herself. "Is he hot?"
"He's attractive, yes."
"Let's see. I can't believe I haven't done this." She pulls out her phone. Taps the screen a few times.
I move around the table.
Shit.
She's looking at the shop's Instagram.
The first few pictures are finished tattoos. But then—
"Oh my God." Her hand goes to her mouth. Her eyes go wide. "That's Dean."
"Is it?" I play dumb.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"It didn't come up," I lie.
"You still like him?"
"It's not a still. I didn't spend the last seven years thinking about him."
"I can't believe… Oh my God. You do."
"Who's Dean?" Dad jumps in.
"This guy from our high school," she says. "He was… "
I find a euphemism. "Casual with his body."
"Huh?" Dad's brow furrows with confusion.
"He was a slut," Gia says.
"So?" Dad asks.
"Oh my God, Dad. You're supposed to warn us about guys like that!" Gia says.
Dad shakes his head kids these days. He looks to me. "Go ahead and make dinner, Chloe. If Gia doesn't want to eat it, she can order pizza for herself." He looks to her. "I thought you said you were on a diet?"
"It's my cheat day. I don't want to waste it on veggie stir fry."
Dad shakes his head. Ridiculous. He stands. Moves to the mail slot by the door—it's close. Our living room/den is a small space. The TV and couch on one end, the dining table in the middle, opposite the door, the kitchen on the other end.
He grabs something from the slot and brings it to me.
A letter from the hospital.
I don't have to open it. I know what it is. An appointment reminder.
Every year, for the next five years, I need a scan. To make sure I'm still cancer free. The odds are good. But not good enough for me to skip the scan.
I shove the letter into my back pocket.
Fighting my frown is useless. I know the reality of the situation. I know there's almost no chance I'm still sick.
But the thought still steals my oxygen.
It still makes the room dark and ugly.
I can't go through that again. And neither can Dad and Gia. It was like they disappeared with me. And watching them hurt… that was the worst part.
"I can take off work. Come with you," he offers.
I shake my head. "I'll be fine. Really." The words feel hollow. Empty. I'm already a nervous wreck and it's three weeks away. That day…
I'm not sure how I'm going to make it.
But if I am sick, if I am disappearing again…
I don't want them to know.
Not for a while at least.
I plant a kiss on my dad's forehead, I move into the kitchen, and I start chopping vegetables. By the time I have them sizzling in the pan, I feel better. Calm. Centered. In control.
Like I can survive this.
Even if I can't.
Chapter Fourteen
Chloe
I let my sister pick the movie. Focus all my attention on stirring sriracha into my bowl. Usually, I avoid the omnipresent condiment. It steals the flavor of the food. Makes everything taste like vaguely spicy ketchup.
But, right now, that's what I need.
I can't taste anything.
I can't concentrate on the weepy tearjerker.
I can't keep up with Dad and Gia's conversation—something about the director's latest movie.
For two hours, I sit with my family, with every ounce of my attention elsewhere. After the credits roll, Dad and Gia move to the kitchen for coffee. I decline. Head upstairs. Lock myself in my room.
Except for the moonlight streaming through the window, it's dark.
I leave the light off.
Pull the letter from my pocket. Tear it open.
I can just barely make out the words. It's a simple appointment reminder. Doctor's name. Time. Date.
The paper behind it goes into the test. An MRI. No jewelry. Expect an hour. Arrive early for paperwork.
Nothing about the possibility of life changing forever.
I fold the paper on my desk. Slide into my cheap Ikea rolling chair. My salary is good for an apprentice—most shops pay nothing or a tiny per diem—but it's still going to take me forever to upgrade my furniture. Moving into my own place is a pipe dream.
My eyes go to my alarm clock. The same one I used all through high school.
The time is there in red numbers.
Ten thirty.
An hour and a half until my deadline.
Dean wants to teach me. Exclusively.
I want to learn.
He may not be the best artist at the shop, but he's the only one really trying to mentor me.
He's my best chance to master ink.
And well…
I might not have a lot of time for that.
For anything.
Even if I'm okay…
I'm probably okay.
The odds are good. I repeat the words over and over, but they don't stick in my brain.
I say it again anyway.
I'm probably okay.
I probably have a long, healthy life ahead of me.
But I'm tired of wasting time.
This is what I want.
I'm t
aking it.
I pull out my cell and text Dean.
Chloe: I'm in.
My heart thuds against my chest. My face flushes. My toes tingle. He can still change his mind. Back out. Find a way to get me fired.
I can still lose this.
And I can't lose this.
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Dean: Damn. Right down to the wire.
Chloe: Almost ninety minutes.
Dean: Even so.
Chloe: I had to weigh my options.
Dean: Smart.
Chloe: I try.
My palms get slick with sweat. My phone slips. Lands on my desk with a soft thunk. It drowns out the sounds of conversation downstairs. The drip, drip, drip of the coffee maker. The low murmur of the TV.
My stomach twists. Because of Dean or the test or the thought of losing everything again, I don't know.
I'm so tired of missing out on life.
On losing what I want.
It needs to change.
I need to change.
Chloe: What are we doing next Saturday?
Dean: Haven't worked that out yet.
Chloe: Will I need a swimsuit?
Dean: You might.
Chloe: Noted.
Dean: You own something besides that lap suit?
Chloe: Yeah.
Dean: Go on.
Chloe: I own bikinis. I just thought the lap suit would be more comfortable.
Dean: Was it?
Chloe: In some ways. Where are you?
Dean: Home.
Chloe: Alone?
Dean: Is this a booty call?
My fingers move of their own accord.
Chloe: What if it was?
Dean: I'd ask what color panties you're wearing.
Chloe: You can probably guess.
Dean: Black?
Chloe: Yeah. I only own black panties.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. Stand. Move to my underwear drawer. Pull it open.
It's a dozen pairs of the same thing—the black bikinis with cream trim. The ones I bought on sale at American Eagle.
And the lacy thongs I bought at Victoria's Secret.
I grab my phone. Snap a picture of the drawer.
I must be going out of my mind. I shouldn't send this to Dean. It's a yes. A please continue your flirting. A please come over and fuck me senseless.
But that is what I want.
He makes me feel good.
And, God, I need that. I need my body aching for his. I need him touching me.
There.
I hit send.
My blush spreads to my chest. Heat goes with it. Down my torso. Straight to my core.
Dean: Fuck, Chloe. You trying to make me hard?
Maybe I am. I don't know. I have no idea how to do this flirting thing. If I can even do this flirting thing.
I'm opening Pandora's box here.
But I have to do it.
Chloe: Are you?
Dean: Yeah.
My tongue slides over my lips. We can't do this. He's my boss. I need the job.
But I need this too.
Chloe: Can we talk like this?
Dean: Can we? Yeah. But we shouldn't.
Chloe: Oh.
Dean: It might shock you, but I don't always do what I should.
Chloe: You're my boss.
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: Do you think about that? About ordering me around?
Dean: You sure you know what you're getting into, sunshine?
Chloe: Positive.
Dean: Yeah. I do.
Chloe: Me too.
Dean: You like me bossy?
Chloe: Sometimes. Other times… You annoy the fuck out of me.
Dean: I know.
Chloe: Doesn't that bother you?
Dean: No.
Chloe: Why not?
Dean: I like the fire.
I like it too. Dean makes me feel a lot—irritated, frustrated, needy, amused, curious, entertained. Some of it is bad.
But it's always something.
When I'm with him, I feel more than the dull, empty numb that set in with my diagnosis.
No one else does that to me.
Chloe: Do you think about me?
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: I think about you.
Dean: I know.
Chloe: I should probably go before we get into trouble.
Dean: Probably.
Chloe: What about you?
Dean: What about me?
Chloe: What are you wearing?
Dean: Jeans. White t-shirt. Black boxers.
Chloe: Are you mocking me?
Dean: Like this? Never.
This is it. If there's a line, I'm officially crossing it.
But I don't care.
I have to do this.
Chloe: Prove it.
There's quiet for a long moment. The sounds of Dad and Gia's conversation flow into my room. Something about Mark. About whether or not Dad thinks she should marry him.
I flip open my laptop. Open my streaming app. Play my favorite grunge album.
It isn't sexy, exactly, but it feels right.
There.
My phone buzzes with a picture message.
It's a mirror selfie of Dean. From his chest to his knees.
He's wearing black boxers.
Only black boxers.
And he's hard.
The soft fabric is straining against him.
Fuck. My sex clenches. My nipples pang. He's the only person who can do this to me. Who makes me feel like a woman with desires.
And, God, my desire…
Dean: What are you wearing?
I flip the light on. Move to the floor length mirror across from my bed. Take a picture.
Send.
Dean: Fuck, Chloe.
Chloe: You asked.
Dean: Overestimated my self-control.
Chloe: I thought you were going to go out to pick up a woman.
Dean: I thought about it.
Chloe: And?
Dean: Thinking about you was more fun.
Chloe: You touched yourself?
Dean: Not yet. But after this I will.
I shouldn't do this.
But the reasonable, logical part of my brain is gone. Every thought is screaming Dean.
I roll my jeans over my hip. The one with the shooting star tattoo. The tattoo he traced that night that started everything.
Or maybe it finished everything.
I'm not sure.
I angle my cell just right. So the pic shows the tattoo, my skin, and my black panties.
There. I snap the photo. Hit send before I can chicken out.
Dean: You trying to kill me?
Chloe: Maybe.
Dean: You're succeeding.
Chloe: You're alone, right?
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: So, if I ask you to take off those boxers?
My cheeks flush. I've never done this before. I've never asked a guy for a sexy picture. With my ex, I was too shy. And we weren't the type to talk about sex. To drag it out.
It was more rote. Get in, come, cuddle, get out.
It was good, but not like this.
Not something that set me on fire.
Dean: Are you asking?
My gaze shifts to the letter on my desk. Three weeks until I meet my fate.
Three weeks to seize life by the balls.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I tap a yes. Go to hit send.
A knock on the door startles me.
My fingers slip. My phone hits the floor. "Yeah?"
"Gia wants to go out for ice cream," Dad calls from the other side of the door. "You want to come?"
Fuck, what a question.
I pick up my phone. Tap backspace until the text is gone.
I want to keep flirting with Dean.
I want to get his clothes off and his hand around his cock and his thoughts on me.
But my trance is broken.
Reality is sinking in.
Dean is my boss.
I need to be smart about this.
There's a line between fear and caution. I'm not sure which side I'm on. Only that I'm not pushing this forward.
"Sure. Give me five," I say to Dad.
"Not sure Gia has five minutes in her," he calls.
"Two minutes," I say.
He makes an uh-huh noise and moves down the stairs.
I tap a reply to Dean.
Chloe: I have to go. Family. I still live at home.
Dean: No shame in that.
Chloe: Yeah. But Dad knocking kind of ruins the mood.
It's bullshit. I'm still flushed and wanting.
I'm still desperate to get his clothes off.
Chloe: Next time.
Dean: Until then, sunshine.
Chapter Fifteen
Chloe
Monday, I leave early enough to beat traffic. I spend my morning at a coffee shop on Abbot Kinney.
I drink endless Earl Grey.
I sketch mock-up after mock-up.
I push thoughts of Dean from my head.
We nearly talked each other into phone sex. And now we're supposed to work together like everything is normal. I have to sit next to him like I'm not thinking about pinning him to the wall and unzipping his jeans.
Like I didn't spend all of Sunday wishing I hadn't chickened out.
When nine thirty rolls around, I toss my tea and walk the dozen blocks to the shop.
Dean is sitting behind the counter working on a mock-up. His expression is intense. Focused. That other Dean.
I knock on the door.
He looks up at me with an easy smile. Motions it's open.
It is. And the AC is set to Arctic Chill. As usual.
"It's freezing in here." I slide my hands into my pockets. Shift my weight between my heels.
He nods, effortlessly casual. "You want my hoodie?"
"Sure." I bite my lip. Borrowing a sweater is a girlfriend thing. An I like you thing. But I guess that particular cat is out of the bag.
He knows I like him.
But does he like me? Does he want a fuck or a friend with benefits or a girlfriend?
My stomach twists as he disappears into the office. A moment later, his footsteps move into the main room. He slings his navy-blue hoodie around my shoulders.
It's warm and soft and it smells like him. Like his shampoo. Clean and masculine and beachy.
His fingers brush my neck as he pulls his hand to his side. "You need tea or something?"
"No. Sorry. Do I look—"
"In the clouds? Yeah. Shake it off, sunshine. Our client's here in ten."
Hating You, Loving You Page 12